


Running in the City

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: Greatest Hits of the Seventies [8]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Cars, Jealous!Hutch, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Or Is It?, bonding over cars, established open relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-05-24 20:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14961584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: By the time Hutch arrives, clanking up the street in his junker like there wasn’t anything wrong with it, Starsky has most of the broken coffee cup swept up into the dustpan, and he’s emptying it angrily into the trash. It doesn’t take much to sense that things are not alright, but Starsky isn’t more forthcoming than a glare, so Hutch asks, “What’s wrong? Buddy? Where is—?”He’s almost afraid to ask, as his mind jumps to the uptick in car thefts they’d been dealing with this week. “No.”Starsky sighs out heavily, leaning on the trash can and tapping the side with the dust pan. “Unless you came and borrowed it this morning, there’s no other answer. So, if you hear hoofbeats, think ‘Zebra Three’...”“Starsky, your car?” Hutch is incredulous. Who would steal Starsky's car? He knows how much the car means to Starsky.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first not-tag to a specific episode in our series, this case takes place between seasons 1 and 2. Enjoy some OCs!

Starsky hasn’t had a morning this bad in a long time. First of all, he’s running late—a toaster malfunction led to a very small fire, contained mostly on a piece of toast but he’d dropped that into the sink and managed to put everything out though it meant he had to skip breakfast except for coffee, which he’s jogging down the stairs with at five past nine, his whole precarious routine thrown off. He hits the street and then stops. 

The car’s not there. He always parks it out front, even though the garage belongs to his landlord and the man’s an absolute flake when it comes to giving Starsky the promised hazard-free garage space that was promised as part of his lease. Instead, he parks in the street in front of the driveway, because the garage itself is so full of paint cans, ladders, and other equipment that no car was ever going to be going into or coming out of it anyway. Today, the spot’s clear.

He turns around on the spot, trying to remember the night before. Had he parked up the street? Left it at a bar? No, it  _ should _ be right here. The slow certainty of what’s actually happened, in light of the recent series of car thefts around town sinks into Starsky’s mind slowly, forming itself into a realization that burns up anger in his whole body. 

He throws his coffee cup onto the ground in anger, and leaves the shards there as he stomps back up the stairs and back into his apartment, picking up the phone and jabbing the number for the precinct out on the rotary.

“Hey, I need you to come pick me up and give me a ride to work,” Starsky says when Hutch picks up, voice tight with barely restrained anger. 

“You’re late,” Hutch says, not meaning anything by it, though it only adds to Starsky’s mood. “Everything okay?” 

“No, everything’s not okay,” Starsky says petulantly. “Look, will you just get down here?”

Starsky sounds really worried, so Hutch stands and takes a swig of his coffee, trying to finish it before he goes out the door. “It’s Starsky, Chief. I’m gonna go pick him up. I’ll be right there, Starsk.” 

“Why isn’t he here already, doesn’t he know what time it is?” Dobey barks, his usual gruff self before he has lunch. 

“Tell Dobey I’ll have another police report for him when I get there,” Starsky tells the phone, but he’s pretty sure Hutch was already in the process of hanging up by the time he said anything, so he heads back downstairs to see his neighbor frowning at the broken coffee cup.

“Oh, Detective Starsky, I was just about to come report this to you,” the little old lady says, peering at him through her coke-bottle glasses. “This is dangerous! Why, you could have hit it with your lovely car and damaged a tire…”

“Thank you Mrs. Applebaum,” Starsky says, flatly. “It’s just mine, I dropped it. I was on my way down to pick it up.”

“Oh, well!” she says, brightly. “You’ve forgotten your dustpan.”

By the time Hutch arrives, clanking up the street in his junker like there wasn’t anything wrong with it, Starsky has most of the broken coffee cup swept up into the dustpan, and he’s emptying it angrily into the trash.

It doesn’t take much to sense that things are not alright, but Starsky isn’t more forthcoming than a glare, so Hutch asks, “What’s wrong? Buddy? Where—?”

He’s almost afraid to ask, as his mind jumps to the uptick in car thefts they’d been dealing with this week. “ _ No _ .”  

Starsky sighs out heavily, leaning on the trash can and tapping the side with the dust pan. “Unless you came and borrowed it this morning, there’s no other answer. So, if you hear hoofbeats, think ‘Zebra Three’...”

“Starsky,  _ your  _ car?” Hutch is incredulous. He knows how much the car means to Starsky. “Didn’t you have it in the garage? Man, these guys picked the wrong car to—look, hop in. We’ll get right on it, pal.” 

“No it wasn’t in the  _ garage _ ,” Starsky says. “My landlord’s priceless collection of half full paint buckets is in there instead, even though I pay an extra fifty bucks a month to be able to park in there. You’d think any idiot with a pair of eyes would know better than to steal a police vehicle.”

The horn blares when Starsky opens the door, and Hutch shrugs, a little more aware of his car’s problems than normal.  Starsky slams it shut again after himself, irritated.

“Sorry. Want to swing by the bagel shop?” Hutch asks, wanting to hedge off Starsky’s bad mood.

“No, I don’t want to go to the bagel shop,” Starsky says. “I wanna go find my  _ car _ .”

He leans back out the window and throws the whole dustpan into the trash can  at the curb. “You know what I can’t figure? Why I didn’t hear anything. Nobody called and reported it. Everybody on the street knows that’s my car! The problem with the world today is nobody looks out for his fellow man.”

“Okay, well we’ll  _ check  _ the bagel shop first,” Hutch ventures, starting the car up again after a few tries. He shudders to think what Starsky will be like come midday if he hasn’t had breakfast. “I mean, to be fair, Starsk, no one’s seen  _ any  _ of these cars disappearing. That’s the trouble. So maybe it’s just Bay City, or maybe these guys are that good. There was nothing else at the scene?” 

“Nothing at all,” Starsky says. “Not even skid marks. If I get that car back in anything less than perfect condition, I’m not responsible for my actions. Don’t they know a man’s car is sacred?”

Starsky’s anger is further fueled by the overhead liner of Hutch’s car finally giving out and tearing away from the interior roof, flapping down to cover his face.

“Okay,  _ some _ men’s cars are sacred. Hutch, when are you gonna have this junk pile condemned? It’s unfit for living for all the mice that have taken up residence in your back seat,” Starsky grouses. “These guys are gonna wish they’d never seen a car in their life after this.”

“I know, buddy,” Hutch assures him, even though he doesn't know and is really just doing his best to be supportive. 

Hutch's car more gives out than is parked outside the bagel shop, and Hutch adds a little water to the radiator as he ushers Starsky in to get himself some breakfast and coffee. 

There's a man in a nice but understated suit and a short beard watching the car with an air of amused disgust. 

“I say, he seems brave,” he teases, gauging Starsky’s reaction before adding, “Do you gentlemen need a lift anywhere?”

He's got a British accent and pretty eyes that are pretty blatantly undressing Starsky.

Starsky is counting change from his pocket, and so unused to being the one who gets attention (as well as upset about his car), that he misses the first, blatant clues as to the disposition of the person addressing him, but he hears the words and registers the outlet for his disgust with Hutch’s car.

“The radiator’s going to explode in a fireball one of these days,” Starsky agrees. “I keep telling him not to put his face so close, but I guess if you spend ten years sticking your head in the lion’s mouth, you get used to taking the risk.”

Satisfied that his change is correct for the two coffees, one bagel, and one bearclaw that he plans on ordering, Starsky looks up and smiles at his co-conspirator against Hutch’s car, and almost has to double-take. He’s not used to handsome people (other than Hutch, anyway) looking at him like this, and Starsky resigns himself to the idea that once Hutch comes inside, as usual, the attention will shift. There's just something about a blonde, blue-eyed cowboy from Minnesota that wins people over, Starsky included.

“I think we’ll be okay,” Starsky says, appreciatively. “As terrifying as it is, it usually gets us there, even if we have to push it the last fifty feet. I don’t suppose your car’s that nice black Miura out there, with the gold pinstriping? That’s a classy set of wheels.”

The man actually blushes, like Starsky’s Yankee brashness has flustered him. “Ah, then you’re a connoisseur? You must allow me to take you and your...friend?...for a spin. V-12 engine, leather seats. I think you’ll really be impressed. Forgive me, the name’s Flambeau. John Flambeau. I’m in town for a car show, and I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a pair of free tickets?” 

“Would I like to go for a ride in it?” Starsky asks, as if that’s the silliest question he’d ever heard. “Did you ever meet anybody who said ‘no’ to a ride in a Lamborghini? That’s the SV, right?  Better cam timing, new carburetors… Ah, sorry, I guess it’s pretty clear I like cars. I’m David Starsky.”

He thrusts out his hand to shake John’s, appreciating the strength of his grip.

Hutch enters the shop, wiping his hands on an oil rag, and sees Starsky in conversation with a well-dressed man with sharp eyes. While generally gregarious, Starsky hadn’t really seemed in the mood to talk to anyone this morning, so it’s a bit of a surprise to see he hasn’t even ordered anything yet. Hutch and the stranger narrow their eyes at each other, briefly, as if sizing each other up. “Hey...Starsk? Shouldn’t we get down to the precinct?” 

“Hey, Hutch,” Starsky waves him over. “Mr. Flambeau here is the owner of that pretty piece in the parking lot, and  _ he _ says there’s a car show going on. I was just thinking it’d be worthwhile to go down there and look around.”

Starsky makes an introductory gesture between the two of them. “This is my partner, Detective Hutchinson. We’re only here in his heap because my car got stolen this morning.”

“Detective?” Flambeau repeats, and gives them another look, and Hutch can almost see him deciding they must therefore be  _ work _ partners only and moving imperceptibly closer to Starsky. “Well, then we  _ certainly _ want you at our event. If thieves in this town are brazen enough to steal a policeman’s vehicle, I would give you both free tickets just to be there. Complimentary passes for your wives, too, or girlfriends…?”

“No, no,” Hutch says, and if he sees right through this man's attempt to ascertain if Starsky is single, then he responds only by putting his arm affectionately around Starsky's shoulders. “Just us bachelors. When is this show? We might be working.”

He wonders if this guy's accent is fake, and decides he doesn’t like him.

Starsky only distantly realizes what’s happening, and he gives Hutch a nudge in the middle. “We can radio to Captain Dobey and tell him we’re going to check out the angle on the show. If anybody’s trying to offload stolen goods in a hurry, a car show would be a good place to do it. And I want my car back before they mess up the paint job.”

“Oh, it's not until this evening. Surely the American work ethic doesn't insist you work until 10:00?” Flambeau says, smiling with aristocratic embarrassment. “I’d love to have you both to dinner, if you have the time.”

Starsky grins and presses the money he’d counted out earlier into Hutch’s hand. “Hey, I want a bear claw, huh?”

Hutch feels— _ is _ —dismissed, and he's so flabbergasted he actually takes the money and goes to the counter to order for them before he knows what he's doing. He wouldn't mind it it were a pretty girl, he thinks, trying to shake himself. If Starsky wants to fall for this smooth operator just because he can talk cars…

“Officer Hutchinson,” Flambeau says warmly when he returns with Starsky’s breakfast, “It's settled. You will join me for dinner tonight at 8. I'll pick you up myself. There's a lovely little Japanese restaurant I want to try. Officer Starsky here says you recommend it?”

“All the seaweed, dessicated and non, you can eat,” Starsky agrees, giving Hutch a smile that’s intended to reassure him. “Plus, I figured you two could bond over raw fish. John’s almost talked me into sushi.”

Apparently somewhere in the five minutes since Hutch had wandered away they’d made it to first name basis. 

“Anyway, we gotta report to the precinct,” Starsky says, accepting his breakfast from Hutch. “I’m sure we’ll catch up with you at the show this evening. Oh, wait, hang on a minute.”

Starsky juggles everything into his right hand, then manages to get his little notebook out of his pocket,  keeping everything together while only slopping a few drops of coffee for long enough to write his number down. “If you happen to see a seventy-six gran torino, candy apple red with a white vector stripe, five slot mag wheels and set up on it’s nose a little, gimme a call, huh? Especially if you see some clown starting it with a screwdriver.”

He passes the note to Flambeau, apparently just as charmed as Hutch thinks he shouldn’t be, but so far as Starsky’s concerned it’s still all friendly and if he’s a little enamored—well, he’s never the lucky one. Maybe the novelty’s just as much part of the attraction. 

Their fingers brush when Flambeau takes the note.

“Now, there can't be many vehicles that striking in this vicinity,” he says warmly. “So I shall do just that. May I give you a ride to your work? Give the old girl out there a break?”

“No, thank you,” Hutch says firmly. “She's fine.  _ It's  _ fine.” 

“We gotta go on patrol in that old junker anyway,” Starsky says. “Unless the engine’s really quit this time. Thank you, though!”

Starsky plans on getting a ride in the Lamborghini this evening anyway, if only on the way to the sushi place. Starsky’s almost jaunty good mood sours the instant they get outside and his bearclaw eating bliss is interrupted by the way Hutch’s horn blares when he opens the car door. Starsky drops himself heavily into the seat and slams the door shut.

“Tell me something,” Starsky grouses, once Hutch is in place. “When you had that alarm system installed did the car look better than it does now?”

“Never mind that,” Hutch grumbles in reply. “You were aware that guy in there was hitting on you, right?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Starsky says, surprised by the change in conversational direction. He puts his feet up on the dash, leaning back to get comfortable and to prevent that one sprung spring in the passenger’s seat from jabbing him in the ass. “Or maybe he was just being friendly to somebody who knows cars. “

A sidelong glance at his partner reveals something Starsky hadn’t expected. Stormclouds on Hutch’s face, and not in the beautiful ‘righteous anger’ sort of way that Starsky so appreciates. “What’s the matter, Hutch, you’re mad you missed a swing at a guy with a Lamborghini?”

“He was not  _ just  _ being friendly. He was way too interested in you,” Hutch says, jackrabbiting the car into a gear. “And way too rich to be hanging around our bagel joint. I’m going to see if he has a record. Isn’t it a coincidence that cars start disappearing and this is the first we’ve heard about some kind of car show?” 

The vehemence of the response surprises Starsky enough that he puts his coffee cup down between his thighs, and turns to look at his partner with empty hands. He just stares at Hutch for a very long moment.

“What, because someone’s interested in  _ me _ for once, they gotta have a criminal record?” Starsky asks, his tone angling toward hurt. “We haven’t  _ checked _ around to see if there were gonna be any car shows, dummy. What are you all jealous for, all of a sudden?”

“Everything was skeezy about that guy!” Hutch says, for lack of anything concrete to complain about. Maybe he is jealous, and overreacting, but it’s not another girl, so maybe Hutch sees Flambeau as more direct competition. “And you don’t even like sushi.” 

Maybe he’s hurt, too. Starsky always talks him out of it when Hutch wants Japanese food, after all. But he’ll go with this complete  _ stranger _ ...who Starsky bonded with over nothing but hating his car. 

“But  _ you _ love it, and I figured it’d give you two something to talk about,” Starsky says. “You’re invited too, remember?”

Starsky picks his coffee cup up off Hutch’s seat, and brushes some stuck-on roofing foam off the bottom of the cup, collected from the slow pile that’s accumulating in his seat. “Hutch, I like the guy. He’s got a nice car. That’s nothing for you to feel threatened by. I never kick up a fuss when all the girls go ga-ga over your baby face and your cowboy boots, huh?”

“It’s not the same—” Hutch sighs, attempting to look at this rationally. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry. He just...rubs me a weird way. I didn’t mean to say that if you  _ wanted  _ to, I would—get in the way.  _ He  _ clearly does. Want to.” 

“Yeah well, people are funny,” Starsky says, and it’s as much about Hutch as anything else. “I guess we’ll see about it. We’ve both been wrong before about people who just wanted dinner, or a friend.”


	2. Chapter 2

Back at the office, Hutch does some  _ very  _ undercover snooping, and finds no criminal record on the man, as much as he wants to find one. And the car show looks legitimate, too, if for the stupidly-wealthy, which explains why none of their usual contacts had brought it up. So everything looks fine. 

It just doesn’t feel fine. 

Starsky attempts to make peace over the course of the day, and in truth he finds Hutch’s jealousy almost endearing except for when he catches Hutch looking up the car show, as if that could have been staged for Starsky’s benefit. Meanwhile, they spend the day running down leads on their other cases in Hutch’s old buggy, and Starsky keeps craning his neck out the windows hopefully.

“I hope those guys haven’t realized what they’ve got,” Starsky laments. “Just the thought of my baby out there in a chop shop is killin’ me.”

“Starsky, I promise your car is not in a chop shop. Just like you said, it’s a great car: if they want it, they want it as is. Worst case, they give it a new paint job to try to disguise it—but that’s  _ worst  _ case!” Hutch adds, when Starsky looks horrified. He sighs and stops the car. “Okay, let me drop you off at home. You gotta get cleaned up for your date.” 

“Hutch, you’re not going all sour grapes on me, huh?”

Hutch had decided he would be too insufferable at dinner, and possibly unfair, so he was already bound and determined to say no. He tried forestalling any protests with, “If you  _ want  _ it to be a date, now it can be! And I can write up today’s reports for you.”

Starsky stops, and he thinks he sees and understands what Hutch is doing. There were times when Hutch was a little more serious with a girl that Starsky held himself back a little too, so when he gets out of the car, he stops and goes around the front, leans on the edge of the driver’s side window, and reaches in to take Hutch’s hand.

“Hey,” Starsky says, and, “Me and thee.”

“Me and thee,” Hutch echoes, automatically, trying not to feel jealous that Starsky’s going to go off with that charming bastard. But he checked out, and Starsky deserves a fun night. 

He leans in to kiss Hutch quickly, but with feeling. Not so long someone could catch them, but long enough to convey how he feels. “If you see my car, you’d better knock out the turkey that’s driving it.”

Hutch softens further at the kiss. “I promise I will. You enjoy the show, okay? Call me if you need anything. And I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

…

Flambeau arrives precisely at 7:30. 

“Where’s your friend? Taking his own car, maybe?” he winks. 

Starsky has even put on a nice shirt, though not a tie and he hasn’t buttoned it, and a good pair of dress slacks, because for once in his life he doesn’t expect to run into any trouble that’s going to land him in the mud. He wishes he had his car, but he sees the shiny black hood of the Miura and almost feels better.

Flambeau is impeccably dressed, though not so finely dressed that he makes Starsky uncomfortable, in a black shirt and a vest that matches the deep shade of purple of his slacks. 

“He’s decided to stay home and catch up on paperwork,” Starsky says, because that’s partially the truth. He slides into the passenger seat, appreciatively moving his hand over the leather. “Give us a chance to get to know each other, I guess. I’ll be honest, I don’t love sushi but maybe my mind can be changed.”

“I’m sure Detective Hutchinson will thank me,” he says, making sure Starsky’s limbs are accounted for before shutting the door and going around to the driver’s side. “Well, we have time enough for a drive. What can I show you? I’m sure as a plainclothes detective, you know where all the best drag racing spots are, yes? Joking! Just a little joke.”  

“You’ll never get good drag racing in Bay City on a Friday night, I’m sorry to say,” Starsky says. “Traffic’s too bad. Besides, the little rat-rods we chase down wouldn’t pose any sport for a car with a real engine. Anything else you’d like to see? You new to Bay City or have you visited in the past? Maybe to car shows?”

“I’ve been here a week and mostly seen the inside of my hotel,” Flambeau says, with an air of someone who’s lying to be polite. “ _ You _ tell me what I should see.” 

He revs the engine, suggestively. Starsky wasn’t aware that one could rev an engine suggestively. It shudders through the whole frame of the car, and that lights up a little illicit thrill in the pit of his stomach, because it’s not just the powerful car but the way the owner keeps looking at him, and the promise of both would probably get anybody’s blood going.

“Alright, I think I know just the place. Take the two-ten towards two,” Starsky says. It’ll be a bit of a trip, out of the way, but if they get up into Wildwood onto the canyon road, they can really open up the engine, and it’ll be safe, private. Pretty, in a way the city wasn’t. 

He leans back in his seat, comfortable, and watches the road slide under their tires. “So tell me about yourself, aside from cars and hotel rooms. What else do you do?”

“I buy and sell cars like this beauty, back and forth between American and European brands. It’s difficult to get a Ferrarri to the Americas, and even harder to get a Ford Mustang to the United Kingdom,” Flambeau reveals, taking Starsky’s directions without any hurry—the Lamborghini gave off the impression of being very easy to drive. “I hate to spoil the mood, but, any luck on your Torino? Or is that what Detective Hutchinson is working late to find?” 

“No luck yet,” Starsky says. “I’m hoping they didn’t realize what they had and drop it into a ditch, but most crooks aren’t that smart. They’ll try anyway if they think money’s on the line.”

His eyes sparkle when they leave the road, briefly, to meet Starsky’s. “He seems like a good friend.” 

Starsky smiles, helplessly, like he usually does when he’s thinking of Hutch. “Yeah, he is.  Sometimes a little overbearing, but we all have our faults, huh? It’s a pretty good arrangement between the two of us.”

He doesn’t want to think about Hutch too much right now, not because Starsky doesn’t love him, but because he’d been such a stick in the mud about this. That’s a whole other can of beans that they can open later. Instead, as they get out onto the back roads in the state park, Starsky shifts in his seat a little, figuring since he’s a cop, he’d better be the one to bridge the gap, take the risk. He eases his hand across the distance and onto John’s thigh, warm and intimate but for just one long stroke, enough that they could both dismiss it if that wasn’t really where John wanted this to head.

“You got thirty miles until there’s a cop turnaround where they sometimes wait. You wanna open her up?” Starsky suggests. 

Flambeau’s smile is expansive, like Starsky has just suggested the greatest idea he has ever heard. “Can I? This would be an dreadful night to be deported. Would quite ruin our date.” 

Then he shifts gears and guns it, along this open beachside highway, taking the curves too fast until they are, both of them, grown men, screaming with jubilation. 

Starsky loves this, the feeling of being understood in some nonverbal way, not in anything requiring words. It's got both their pulses racing, speed like almost a living thing that burns up in their blood, momentum and the way he slides in the seat as the car curves around the turns like it might leave the earth at any second.

Then the city's lights spread out below them as they top the rise, and they catch their breath for only an instant, as John gets the car turned around and stars above, lights below. 

“From up here,” Starsky drawls, when the car’s stopped at the turnout, “It almost looks respectable.”

“It is a beautiful city, David. From all angles,” John says, glancing sidelong—almost coyly—across the space between them.

His hand sneaks over into John’s lap, as if he were curious about how adrenaline hard he was. On any other occasion, Starsky might be worried about seeming easy, rushing into things, but there's some teenage element still alive in him that knows a good setup when he sees it, and he palms over enough of a bulge to know he's not the only one.

“My, officer, aren’t you supposed to read me my rights first?” John asks, opening up his knees, though he’s giggling, flushed, and very eager. “Or is this, ah, that Yankee hospitality I’ve heard so much about?” 

“I could read you your rights, but I’m gonna need my mouth in a minute,” Starsky suggests, with half a grin. “You’re talking about  _ southern _ hospitality.”

John surprises them both by leaning in for a kiss, his beard surprisingly soft against Starsky’s cheeks, and then stops abruptly. “I-I’m sorry, that wasn’t too forward of me?” 

“Not at all. What time’s that show again?” Starsky wonders as if idly, working over the zipper.

…

Starsky actually doesn’t wake up late the next morning, despite a long night that had stretched into the wee hours. He’s up at seven, energized by the company, and perhaps sleeping someplace that wasn’t his house was enough to keep his body on a little more alert than he might have been. Still, he’s due for work at eight, and they’re across town from his precinct. 

John’s already up with breakfast on a service, and Starsky picks up haphazard clothes off the floor to pull them on as he heads over. The suite is gorgeous, and he stops halfway to admire the view out the huge windows, down over the beach and the bay itself, and he turns to smile at John before he joins him at the table. 

“This is absolutely the classiest place I’ve ever woken up,” Starsky tells him, clearly amused by that. He does up two buttons of the shirt he’s put on and sinks into the chair across from John. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time. Thank you.”

He feels taken apart, in a good way. Relaxed, though maybe not as unguarded as he feels around Hutch; it was good. A new and electric feeling that was maybe just a little addictive because there was still so much left unknown. Starsky reaches out and claims a couple slices of toast from the massive breakfast, obviously intended for two. 

“I had figured you for a late sleeper,” John says playfully, offering a plate of bacon. “What a show last night, right? I told a few of my colleagues to keep an eye out for your car, the only dark spot in what I consider to have been a wonderful day.”

As if to emphasize this, John takes Starsky’s hand and kisses it. 

“I agree,” Starsky says. “I’m actually hoping this isn’t going to be your only visit to Bay City, huh? Nice to spend some time with someone who knows a thing or two about cars, and how to get engines going.”

Starsky squeezes John’s hand, and then takes a couple of pieces of bacon and feels like his mood is absolutely as good as it possibly could be, given how much he misses his own car. Some of that was definitely the sex, but he’d also just genuinely had a good time. And the  _ food _ . “Anyway, I’m normally a late sleeper, but I’m on first shift today. We got a couple of connections and we’re gonna run down some of our own leads. How ‘bout you?”

“The same for me, I think,” John says. “Run down some leads and connections, though of a different nature. You'll be sure to tell Detective Hutchinson that you're a sushi convert?”

“Sure, it’ll make his day,” Starsky says. “I still think food should be cooked, but there might be rare cases where I’m wrong.”

He grins and spoons scrambled eggs onto each of their plates. “Which was your favorite car last night?”

“I’m not normally an understated sort of guy,” Starsky admits. “Normally, I’m all about that american muscle, you know? Corvettes, Firebirds. But I gotta say, that Jaguar left an impression.”

A suggestive upward tilt of his eyebrows accompanies a brief glance at his watch, and he finishes chewing quickly. “Alright, I gotta catch a cab. Don’t lose my number, okay?”

“Oh! Don’t catch a cab! I’ll drive you, what kind of cad do you think I am?” John says, tripping over himself to finish his meal and get ready to walk out the door at the same time. He spills coffee on himself as he asks, “Do you need to leave now?” 

Starsky passes a napkin, wordlessly. “I got about ten minutes before I have to be out the door absolutely, if I’m not waiting on a cab, but my precinct’s in the southside and if I walk in late today, Captain Dobey’ll have my head.”

John’s grin is absolutely devilish. 

“Well, we can’t have an officer of the law be  _ late, _ now, can we?” he says, like he’s just accepted a challenge. 


	3. Chapter 3

Hutch is the one who’s late walking in the next morning, with two cups of coffee and two bagels and a bear claw. He’s ready to offer them and an explanation to Dobey, as well as launch into his concern that Starsky wasn’t home when he went by to pick him up this morning, but Starsky is already there, with his feet on Hutch’s desk, filling out paperwork. 

Hutch blinks. “You’re...here.” 

“Got a ride in,” Starsky says, smiling brightly at Hutch, waving him over. “Got a message from Huggy waiting for us this morning, figure we could run that down. What about you?”

Hutch stays baffled because then he won’t have time to be angry or hurt or do anything stupid. “I...went by your house…” 

He doesn’t follow the train of thought after where Starsky was if he wasn’t home all night. He shouldn’t be bothered by it. He isn’t. As long as he doesn’t think about that guy with his hands on Starsky...

Hutch looks concerned, Starsky thinks, and he wonders if Hutch really hadn’t let it go last night. It probably means they should talk about it, if this was going to be a problem in the future. Starsky hopes that for now, they can let it go. “Thanks for the coffee, partner. How was your evening?”

“Ah, fine,” Hutch says, and coughs, successfully stopping his thoughts and focusing on work if he doesn’t ask how Starsky’s evening went. “Wrote up the reports from yesterday, and, ah—got a head start on…” 

He’s distracted, unable to finish a sentence, and tries again. “Got a call early this morning to check on another missing vehicle. And this time we’ve got a lead. There were some shots embedded in a wall, and ballistics is gonna see if that turns up anything.” 

“Shots, huh? That’s kinda out of pattern. What went wrong that our car thief is suddenly shooting the place up?” Starsky wonders, intrigued. “Anybody get eyes on him? Somebody musta if they were shooting.”

Starsky finishes his coffee, grabbing his coat—same one he’d worn yesterday, and if he was at work in slightly rumpled dress slacks, well—and heads for the door. “I’d say we better hit the street, partner, things just got interesting.”

“I'm hoping Huggy can tell us,” Hutch agrees, deciding maybe Dobey will forget about his being late to the office if they can find out what's been going on in this town. 

In the car, Hutch winces at every little fault of the vehicle, where before he never cared. He admits, “Maybe I should get that alarm thing fixed.”

Hutch says it because he can't bring himself to ask how last night was. He can't believe how actually  _ jealous  _ he is!

“For my sanity and yours,” Starsky agrees, with a wink. “Also your squeak is back. You want me to get underneath and realign your belt?”

Starsky’s wink has Hutch surprised enough at the double entendre to laugh, and maybe things return to an approximation of where they’re supposed to be.

Huggy meets them at an upscale diner, where his usual contacts don't frequent and he can therefore speak freely. 

“Gentlemen!” he greets, smiling broadly and wickedly. “Heard you two took in a show last night.”

“Just me, Hug,” Starsky says, with a shrug. “I got a very polite invitation.  Nice cars, too, but none that had my name on ‘em. You heard anything today?”

“Nothing about your car, man. I don’t think nobody in this town is  _ that  _ crazy. But I did hear something about the piece that got stolen last night.” 

A waitress brings them coffee and a smile, and Huggy pauses, probably mostly for dramatic effect. 

“Hey, I’ll take uh, pastrami on rye, okay?” Starsky orders, after a sip of coffee. His long night is starting to catch up with him and he’d had enough exercise that he was pretty hungry. “So, tell us about this other car that was stolen.”

“Nice car, and somebody robin-hood’ed it right out of the garage of some upscale homeowners in the moviestar quadrant. Not the sort of place cars usually get boosted, if you take my meaning,” Huggy elaborates, glad for his captive audience. “They have community security and everything. Must be what our man-with-a-plan was shooting at. If you ask me, it’s a ring of thieves and they’re moving up in the world.”

“Any idea who’s got the kind of aspirations that would set these events in motions, Huggy?” Starsky wonders,  thanking the waitress once his sandwich is delivered.

“You didn’t hear it from me, but my man Merle the Earl has been complaining about all the business Doobie’s Paint Shop’s been getting as of late,” Huggy says.

“Merle the Earl,” Starsky says. “Somehow Fate always conspires to put us there in  _ your _ car. It’s like a sign from above.”

“You know, I got a cousin,” Huggy begins, as Starsky gets his hands on his sandwich at last. “Got a used car lot up on Figueroa near Pasadena. If you ever decide to do something about that travesty…”

Just then the radio kicks on, summoning Starsky and Hutch with their callsign. “Zebra-Three, Zebra-Three, this is Dispatch with a patch through from Captain Dobey.”

“Nice try, Huggy, but the man’s impossible to reform.” Starsky looks longingly at his unbitten sandwich, then puts it back down on the plate and pushes it toward Huggy. “If anything else comes up, give us a call, huh?”

Hutch presses Starsky back down to the seat. 

“Sit here and at least eat a few bites,” he insists, even if that pastrami is going to kill him one day. “I’ll take the call. Thanks, Hug.”

In the car, Hutch grabs the radio and glances a little wistfully at the back of Starsky’s head before responding. “This is Zebra-Three, go ahead.” 

“Hutch? Or Starsky?” Dobey asks gruffly. 

“Hutch,” he answers, and has to bite back a laugh at Dobey’s obvious pause for some cute reply from Starsky, but nothing’s forthcoming. “He’s with our contact, Captain. What’ve you got?” 

“Ballistics came back, and ah, it’s not good,” Dobey says. “Starsky there?” 

Hutch leans forward. “No, Cap, he’s—look, what did ballistics come up with?” 

Dobey’s quiet for just long enough. “I want you to check your partner’s weapon, tell me if he’s missing any rounds. They picked up two bullet casings that matched the 9mm rounds in the wall, and it didn’t take too long to get a hit. Firing pin marks and rifling indicate it’s a Smith and Wesson model fifty nine. And the eggheads say it’s in the database...” 

“Captain, you can’t think  _ Starsky  _ would—”

“Of course I don’t! That’s why I want you to check it!” 

The line goes dead. Hutch can really only think of one way Starsky’s gun might have gotten to the scene without him, and he doesn’t like it.  

Starsky emerges from the diner still chewing, and leans in the driver’s side window to see Hutch making a sour face. “What’s the news? Somebody stole Dobey’s car this time? They’ll have a hell of a time selling the Cap’s minivan on the black market. They could advertise the hidden food stashes.”

Hutch stares at Starsky until he stops joking around, the beautiful smile fading from his face. 

“Ballistics has a match. Dobey wants you to check your gun,” Hutch says evenly, waiting. 

Starsky laughs, like Hutch has got him with a good one, the usual sort of surprise left jab that Hutch was so good at coming up with, but then Hutch’s expression doesn’t change, and his laugh fades. His hand goes to the holster at his shoulder, just putting it flat over his weapon as if it might have vanished.

“ _ My _ gun?” Starsky says, confused. He undoes the safety strap over the grip, and then passes Hutch the weapon, as if trusting Hutch more than himself, or confident everything will be fine.

Hutch blinks, surprised at the trust Starsky is bestowing in him, and after a moment, accepts the Smith & Wesson. He checks the safety and turns it over in his hand, like he could physically see signs of anyone else handling it, before pulling out the magazine to where they can both see it’s not a full clip. “One in the chamber. You’re missing two.”

The air is already tense inside the car when Hutch asks, “How...close did you and your new friend get last night?” 

Starsky reaches out to take the magazine and look at it. He normally checks before he goes on duty but it’s so habitual that he couldn’t say if he’d done it yesterday or the day before. No doubt that it is missing two. He’s also debating how he wants to answer the question, thinking about it, but honesty is the best policy.

“Spent the night together. The  _ whole _ night,” Starsky emphasizes. He doesn’t want to consider that John could have taken his gun for the commission of a crime while Starsky slept, and then smiled at him in the morning and driven him to work. “There’s gotta be some mistake.”

Hutch sighs audibly, surprised to find himself more upset  _ for  _ Starksy than jealous of Flambeau. He puts a hand on Starsky’s knee, not saying one way or the other. “We should maybe go talk to him.”

Then Hutch reconsiders. “I could go talk to Doobie if you'd prefer to talk to Flambeau alone.”

Starsky puts his hand over Hutch’s on his knee. “Yeah. What’d Dobey say we should do? Does he need me to report in? I’ll go speak to Jo— _ Flambeau _ alone, but you don’t need to skip town, either.”

“Yeah, ah. We could wait til we have some real news for Dobey before we call it in,” Hutch says, wanting to protect his partner. “Where does this guy stay, huh?”

“Uptown hotel,” Starsky says. “I can get you there.”

He goes quiet and thoughtful after giving the directions, trying to put pieces together. He’s not getting very far. “I can’t figure it, Hutch. If he was involved, why’d he want to get closer to me?  And why fire my gun at the scene of a theft?”

Aside from throwing off the trail for a few minutes anyway. Starsky shifts a little, uncomfortably, and not just because he has a spring jabbing him in the ass. “How do I explain all this to Dobey?”

“Maybe he's...not involved like we think he is,” Hutch tries, though he doesn't believe it. “Or maybe he's unhinged—or  _ really _ smart. You don't have to tell Dobey anything you don't want to. You stayed over at his hotel room because you had a few too many drinks, he stole your gun at some point. Anyway, it wasn't like he was a suspect when you…”

Starsky rubs his face. It’d been a good night, and he was determined not to regret it. It just stings that Hutch was  _ right _ , of course a guy like that wouldn’t be interested in Starsky without some kind of ulterior motive. What was it that Starsky really had to offer, there, anyway?

Hutch trails off, and between gear shifts, offers Starsky a hand, low and out of sight. Starsky takes it, squeezes his fingers. 

But the mood changes immediately when they pull up to the hotel, where a red striped Torino sits out in front.

“Hey!” Starsky practically hurls himself out of Hutch’s car before it’s stopped moving. “That’s my car!”

He’s overjoyed in spite of himself, getting his hands onto the fender, running them over the roof line. He knows his baby anywhere, and she’s gleaming clean and still in good shape (except, Starsky notes, for one or two cowboy boot prints on the hood in Hutch’s size). Starsky pulls the driver’s side door open to inspect the inside once the outside has passed muster, worried that he’ll find all the wires pulled out under the dash or something else, but instead he just finds everything in good condition and a note on the seat.

He holds it up to show Hutch, and then sits down in the driver’s side to read it. 

Hutch doesn't believe it's really Starsky's beloved car—can't really tell, honestly, you could paint a family sedan red and fool Hutch—until he makes a circle around it and reads the license plate—537-ONN. His grin falters somewhat when Starsky holds up a note. But Starsky holds it so they both can read it once he leans in window:

_ David— _

_ It turns out there are perks to the business.  _

_ Warmly,  _

It’s short and cute and frustratingly unhelpful. It also reads like something of a goodbye. “So...is he not here anymore?” 

“I’d put my money on it,” Starsky says. “We’d better get upstairs and have a glance at his room, see if there’s anything left behind.”

It doesn’t seem likely, but Starsky puts the note in his pocket and reluctantly leaves his car behind—it better still be there when he gets back!—before he heads inside, Hutch at his heels. Inside they show their badges, but get the information that the room was empty, checked out, but hadn’t been cleaned yet. They head upstairs and find, well, an empty room. A quick ransack reveals nothing but the normal signs of occupation, and no papers or anything of the sort left behind in the trash or ashtray.

“ _ Nothin’ _ ,” Starsky assesses, after a few minutes of searching. “You got anything?”

“Nothing,” Hutch echoes. “Maybe the receptionist knows where he went?”

He bites his lip, wondering if he should mention this to Starsky. “Maybe we just let it go. See what Doobie’s Paint Shop looks like—if they’ve gotten any high-end cars recently? More than usual, I mean…” 

Starsky sighs, throwing down handfuls of rumpled blanket back down onto the bed and considering the next option. “Yeah, I think we gotta work this like we would otherwise. You take Doobie’s, I’ll take the receptionist. I can put out an APB on the Miura, it’s just unusual enough that maybe someone on patrol’s seen it.”

He picks himself up, tries to keep everything together. Maybe there was an answer for all this that wasn’t what he thought. Starsky pauses on their way back downstairs, and offers a half-smile to Hutch. “He wanted me to tell you he’d changed my mind on sushi.”

Hutch grabs the back of Starsky’s neck and squeezes companionably, shaking his head at him. “He probably wanted to make me jealous, since I could never even get you to  _ try  _ sushi. Good luck, partner.” 

They synchronize their watches and Hutch jogs out to his car. 

Hutch debates asking Huggy to meet him there, since he doesn’t speak jive and he  _ certainly  _ doesn’t speak car, but he’s a big boy. He can handle this. 

Except he doesn’t even make it to Doobie’s, ambushed where he parks his car—where he lets it stall out, really—by two men whose faces he doesn’t get a glimpse of before they knock him out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry we were late in updating this one!

Starsky manages to track Flambeau down to the docks, and though it takes him longer than he’d like, it makes sense. He was an importer and exporter, and it would be far harder to locate stolen cars if they were shipped overseas. Smart, if more expensive than most schemes. That was probably why the higher end cars were targeted: they were the only ones worth the extra effort.

Once he’s tracked down the ship, he hits the docks at a run, having heard that the freighter plans on leaving dock within the hour. He hopes he’s wrong, but he knows better, trusts Hutch’s instincts more than that. He follows that instinct down into the cargo hold, and quickly spots the Miura that had first caught his eye.

Now just to find the owner. 

There are a lot of beautiful cars on this freighter, and if Starsky hadn’t done a double-take just to admire them he might not have gotten a little be suspicious about how many makes and models he spies on the list of stolen vehicles he and Hutch had been investigating. 

“Ah, you caught me,” John says, coming up behind him. “I had rather hoped you would before I left.” 

Starsky finds that he almost hoped that he hadn’t found Flambeau, but he turns around anyway. “Stealing for export? I would have thought that was below you.”

Starsky shows his empty hands; he already knows this isn’t going to come to a shooting match. “What’d you need my gun for, huh? You coulda walked away with me none the wiser without that little stunt.”

“Oh,but  _ David _ , that would mean I didn’t want you to know,” John replies, smoothly, but with utter conviction. Maybe Hutch was right about this guy being slightly unhinged. “I never want lies to come between us.” 

Starsky’s not sure how serious he is, not sure how much he can or should trust Flambeau, but he’s sure that’s not the man’s real name, now. He wants to look John in the eyes and understand, but in truth he should be looking just as hard at himself, at what it was that had driven him not to question this sooner.

At least he seems genuine about one thing, though, Starsky realizes as the criminal blurts out, like a confession, “Come away with me.” 

The corner of Starsky’s mouth pulls up in a half-bitter expression, and he tilts his head, measuring, eyes intense. “You don’t want that.”

They haven’t known each other more than twenty four hours, and half of that had been all impulse and magnetism. It was nothing in the long run, a tip on the scale that couldn’t balance against the years he had with Hutch, and the years he  _ wants _ to have with Hutch. 

“How about you come in with  _ me _ ?” Starsky asks. “I’ll tell them to go light on you. You could reform.”

“I promise you I  _ am _ reforming. This job is my last one, will get me free of a few unsavory colleagues who, I am not pleased to inform you, just had a run-in with Detective Hutchinson…” 

Starsky goes tense, and  _ now _ his hand goes to his gun, but he doesn’t draw it.

Flambeau’s visible wince looks too theatric to be real, but with an air of being jealous of Hutch, and therefore not strictly caring about what happened to him. “But I’ll tell you where they put him. Of course.”

“You better,” Starsky says. “And quit messing around. That’s one game I won’t play.”

“Quite right, the tide’s coming in,” John says, and then he  _ actually turns his back _ on Starsky, like he hasn’t a single fear of him. “All I need beg of you is sign this, get off my ship, and I’ll tell you exactly where you need to go.”

When Starsky doesn’t move, he continues, playing “Don’t worry, it’s a left-handed fountain pen. Keep it, if you like. Another gift. Your car, safe and sound, Detective Hutchinson, safe and sound, and the best pen you’ll ever write with.”  

“What am I signing?” Starsky asks, tone gone cold and hard, dropped an octave in clear displeasure as he takes both the pen and the offered clipboard. “What do you think my signature’s going to get you?”

He’s trying to do the math in his head of how long until the tide comes in, and he knows he’s got a half an hour, maybe. Hutch is somewhere nearby, if they really have him at all. It’s a good way to manipulate Starsky. He glances over the papers, taking in the destination, and any other information that can help him later. He can sign, get Hutch, and send the authorities to intercept… but he has to play his hand close to his chest.

“I’m not a customs agent, John,” Starsky says. “What good’s my signature going to do you?”

“Authorize this forgery, of course,” Flambeau says, like this is all a great joke. “Unfortunately, the customs officer hasn’t reported for duty today, so a regular police sergeant will have to do.” 

Starsky narrows his eyes at that, hoping it doesn’t mean what he thinks it does. He takes it as a warning that Flambeau is serious.

Flambeau licks his lips, glancing down at the clipboard. “And I should very much like to be gone in his absence.” 

“I can’t protect you from a murder charge,” Starsky says, signing his name, but he doesn’t hand over the clipboard. “Where’s Hutch?”

“A condemned warehouse down by the waterfront projects,” Flambeau answers, holding out his hand. “And now we’ll push off, so, if you’re staying, this is where you get off.” 

“Tell me something,” Starsky says, putting the clipboard back into Flambeau’s hand, holding onto it. He shouldn’t ask. He doesn’t need to know, but he  _ wants _ to, because it’s important for him to know how much of a monster he’d missed, under that smooth facade. “If I had agreed to go with you, would you have told me about Hutch? Or would you just have let him die?” 

Flambeau shrugged, almost playfully, which did not fit the question. “Well, if you had chosen to run away with me, would it have mattered?” 

_ Of course it mattered _ , and in the end, that’s why Starsky never would have chosen Flambeau, not in a million years. 

Then he dropped the smile. “But I  _ didn’t  _ honestly expect you to, David. Not for a moment. Now go save your beautiful blond boyfriend, and maybe next time we meet, it will be under more favorable circumstances.” 

Starsky doesn’t say anything else, not even goodbye, as he feels the engines of the ship start up and he bolts for the dock, taking the stairs up two at a time to get back onto the docks, running for his car, for the radio. He finds another note in the seat somehow, this one with the address, and he floors it to get there in the time he has left. 

…

Hutch wakes disoriented, in a dimly-lit room, and he can’t tell what time it is, or where he is. He smells ocean, salt water, and hears the sound of water. His head hurts, and as his eyes adjust to the light, he realizes the room he’s in is filling with water. Which, he should have figured, since the water is up to his chest. How long he’s been here is answered by where the water level is, and where the line a few feet above his head tells him is the high tide mark. 

He straightens up and comes alive to find his hands are cuffed to what feels like a very heavy chair. His ankles, too, are attached the the chair, and his immediate struggles prove that the chair is bolted to the floor. 

“Damn it,” he says, heart racing as he wonders who put him here, or why, and how he’s going to get out. He might pick one cuff in time, or break his thumb to escape if he had to, but there’s no way he can get out of all four cuffs before the tide comes in. Where the hell is Starsky?

The sound of squealing tires grinding to a halt answers the first part of the question, but as to the second part (how is Starsky going to get him out of this?), a lot of uncertainty remains. 

“Hutch?” Starsky yells, knowing he’ll have to go down, that they’ll have put Hutch on a lower level. At least the outer door isn’t locked, the whole place is abandoned and looks like it’d go over in a stiff breeze. Starsky bolts for the first stairs down he finds, calling out again as he peers down into the dim basement. “Hutch?”

“Starsk? Starsk!” Hutch shouts. “Starsky, buddy, am I glad to—” 

He cuts off, sputtering, as the water is up to his neck and keeps sloshing into his mouth. But Starsky may need to follow the sound of his voice, so he keeps talking. “I'm down here! They've got me cuffed to this chair, I don't know who got me! Be careful!”

_ There _ . He can see where the water’s coming in, and he sloshes into it up to his midsection as he tries to locate exactly where his partner’s voice is coming from. Starsky is about to sprint back for a hacksaw, but when he locates Hutch’s voice coming from behind the door, he sees a little set of keys taped onto it, an ‘F’ written  in an elegant hand that he recognizes, and Starsky grabs them, and yanks the door open, letting out a wave of water that threatens to knock him over.

“I”m here, partner,” Starsky calls, wading in; soaking now. “I’m here, let’s get you out of there, huh? Is it just your arms, or did they get your legs, too?”

“Legs, too,” Hutch says, panic beginning to set in for no real reason since Starsky is the one diving underwater and holding his breath.

Starsky’s heart is racing, too, and he practically has to dive under the water to get the key into the lock, and the tide’s rising every second, but he gets one of Hutch’s arms free, and then gives him half the keys, and starts working on the other, though they have to switch which keys they have after a minute of fumbling, and Starsky almost  _ almost _ loses the one for Hutch’s other hand when a surge of water splashes him in the face, but they get it done, and then Starsky gets his arms around Hutch and hangs on, like the ocean might pull them apart, and starts half-swimming back for the way up.

Hutch coughs, holding onto Starsky for dear life, still disoriented by the knock on the head, though not enough that he can't give a few powerful kicks to get them to a set of stairs, and then to follow Starsky up until they can push the door to and lean against it, panting. 

“I owe you one,” Hutch huffs, after a few breaths. Starsky looks a little more haunted than he should, even if they had cut it pretty close. He's about to ask if Starsky is okay when,  _ Fuck it, _ he thinks, and just tugs him into a tight embrace. This isn't the time for words. 

Starsky hangs onto him fiercely, until he’s sure that Hutch’s heart is beating. He’s not going anywhere, and neither is Starsky, at least until both of them start shivering from being soaking wet with seawater. Starsky has an anchor point on Hutch’s shoulder with his hand, and then he leans back and sighs. “You don’t owe me anything, partner. You were right.”

Hutch is startled by this revelation, startled into not being able to say anything, but hugs Starsky back, and coughs all over his shoulder. 

He pulls Hutch closer still, just one more time, and then starts heading for the car without letting go of him. If he’s honest with himself, he’s a little afraid this might be the end. He hadn’t  _ listened _ to Hutch, who was always the smarter and more sensible of them, and it had almost cost Hutch his life. 

Even his car doesn’t bring him a single ounce of joy. He sinks down in the driver’s seat, and puts his hands onto his face to try and get himself together. Normally he’d fuss about the seawater on the leather, but right now he’s considering what the changes would mean in his life if he just took the bus everywhere.

Hutch squawks as Starsky just sits his dripping ass down on his newly returned to him leather seats. “Starsk!” 

He pops the trunk to get the beach towels Starsky keeps in there (for him, mostly, since the beach isn’t really Starsky’s aesthetic) (and of course to clean up spills on the precious leather seats) and hauls Starsky bodily out of the car so he can put a towel down for him to sit on. 

“You dummy, you sure you didn’t hit your head, too?” Hutch asks, but softly, almost fondly, as he finally sits beside him, and shuts the door.

“I'm okay,” Starsky says, all evidence to the contrary. They’re both more or less okay, physically anyway. “You need someone to look at your head? Or do you just wanna go get a change of clothes somewhere?”

“Let’s go to your place and pick up some clothes,” Hutch says. “My head’s fine, the nurse can look at it at the office when we get there. What...happened?”

“What happened is I'm such a dope I let a nice car and some polite words take me for a ride,” Starsky says. “You tried to tell me, and I didn't listen. Shoulda  _ known _ better.”

Hutch experiences a brief gleeful _ I told you so _ before it makes him feel instantly worse, since Starsky looks so miserable. So he confesses, “Look, I only tried to tell you because he was a handsome, rich son of a gun who made me jealous. That’s not quite the same thing.” 

“You knew he was bad news, too.” Starsky slaps the steering wheel hard with his open palm. “What's a guy like that ever interested in a guy like me for, except as a patsy? I'm sorry, Hutch.”

“Buddy,” Hutch says firmly, sliding across the seat between them to put an arm around him and squeeze his shoulders. “I wouldn’t’ve been  _ really  _ jealous if he wasn’t  _ really  _ into you, you got that? A guy like you, handsome car, good hair, sweet smile, what’s not to love? Clearly there just aren’t a lot of gay-or-female criminals with impeccable taste in our town, you know?” 

Hutch is grinning, shaking Starsky, but Starsky doesn’t seem to be listening. 

“That’s not funny, Hutch, you could have been killed!” Starsky could have gotten his partner killed, and for what? Nothing, in the end. “He was playing some kind of game. Wanted me to sign off on his bogus manifest.”

Starsky sits upright, suddenly, grabbing for the radio. He can at least report where Flambeau was headed now that Hutch is safe.

“Oh, good thinking,” Hutch says, and starts the car, mainly so he can kick on the heat. 

“Zebra-Three, this is dispatch, go ahead,” comes the voice of the dispatch agent. 

“Dispatch, I need you to get in touch with the port in Liverpool,” Starsky says, remembering the port of entry listed on the manifest. “I’ve got information about a shipment of stolen goods headed that way.


	5. Chapter 5

Later, miserable in his own living room with a towel around his shoulders and more or less dry clothes on, Starsky struggles to absorb the events of the day. He should take a shower, wash the salt off his skin, clean his face, get cleaned up. 

“I don’t think Captain Dobey really bought my story about being too drunk to drive,” Starsky says, after a long silence, and rubs his face. “I’m not worried about what  _ he _ thinks, but he’s not the only one who’s gonna read that report.”

He’ll be lucky if IA doesn’t come breathe down his neck for the next couple months, and to be honest, he might deserve it, after a slip like this. 

“ _ Hey _ ,” Hutch says, crouching in front of Starsky and giving him a hard glare. “It wasn’t like we didn’t pre-screen him, under the name he gave, which is better than we do with any girl we go home with, or who goes home with us.”

“That’s different,” Starsky says, stubbornly.

“It’s not different,” Hutch insists. Technically, Hutch had been the one to screen him, but Dobey and Internal Affairs both treated them as a single entity—Starsky-and-Hutch. “Hell, you know we’ve been on assignments that have us sharing hotel rooms with unknown entities all the time, so if they make a big deal about him taking your gun, they’ve got a bigger problem, with more than just you.”

Starsky isn’t looking at him, so Hutch reaches up to grab his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “And if they start giving you shit for  _ anything else _ , they are not going to like how we play that game.” 

Looking into Hutch’s blue eyes as they bore into Starsky’s to try and make him understand is enough to almost snap Starsky out of it. At the root of it, self pity or worry won’t help anything, and it only matters so much because of what was at stake.

“Hutch,” Starsky says, grabbing his hands, pulling their bodies together. “What would I do without you, huh?  _ That’s _ what I’m all busted up about, partner. Whatever happened to me is… well, sometimes when you go fishing you catch a shark. But it shouldn’t get back to you.”

Hutch chuckles, leans in like he’s going to kiss Starsky, but pauses at the last minute. “You know, I’m oddly flattered by it?” 

Starsky looks at him like he’s crazy, though, and Hutch has to elaborate, sitting back on his heels, though he has a hand on each of Starsky’s knees. 

“Look. Forest and his goons did basically the same thing to me to get Jeanie to do what they wanted, right? Difference is, we both sign up for this. If our con artist knew he’d have you by the short hairs by threatening me, we know he’s very good at what he does and we can feel less bad about him getting one over on us. He knew you for less than twenty-four hours and spotted your biggest weakness.” Hutch grins smugly, like he’s very proud to have this role, and then he kisses Starsky softly on the mouth and teases, “God forbid, he knew you any longer, he’d’ve tried to drown a pizza, and you’d’ve done  _ anything _ for him!” 

“You’re terrible,” Starsky tells him, but…oddly, he does feel better. Hutch is still there. That’s the part that matters. He hooks his hands under Hutch’s arms and pulls him up onto the couch, though he’s sure he smells like the ocean and Hutch still has marks on his wrists from the cuffs, he can join their hands and lean their bodies together. After a moment of quiet, he suggests, “Now there’s a new marketing gig. Saltwater taffy pizza. For dessert.”

“You’re disgusting,” Hutch says, spreading his weight out over Starsky like he can smother him this way. “If you promise to not be gross I’ll order pizza, okay?” 

“What do you mean, ‘gross’?” Starsky asks. “Like you can say anything, you barely eat anything that isn’t liquified.”

Then Hutch sits up, so he can get a good look at Starsky, and his eyes go soft. “You know, on some level, I’ve got to thank this guy. He reminded me I’ve got a very handsome, clever, fun, athletic man right here, who’s one hell of a cop and my best friend, and sometimes-lover, and if I don’t treat him right, if I don’t appreciate him, someone else will come along who will. Apparently I needed that reminder.” 

Starsky thinks there are a lot of things he could say in response to that, like— _ Why would he ever go anywhere other than home, when what he’s got is so good? _ Or any number of a dozen other things, but the truth was that they were both still pretty young, and it was pretty good for their cover (not that they’d ever been remarkably  _ good _ at undercover work, double entendres aside) to go with girls every now and again. It had never damaged their relationship before, and Starsky’s glad his mistake this time hadn’t, either. 

Instead, he just pulls Hutch’s mouth against his and kisses him long and slow, then leans back. “How ‘bout sushi?”

Hutch opens his mouth to laugh, before he remembers. “Hey, that’s  _ right _ , you like it now! See, two reasons I’m gonna shake this jerk by the hand before I punch his lights out, if I ever see him again.” 

Gleefully, Hutch clambers off him to find a phone book before Starsky changes his mind. 

…

It’s only after he’s eaten that Starsky seems to be doing a little better. Hutch is convinced it’s the green tea, laced with a little bit of whisky, that they washed the sushi down with. Hutch even does the dishes, such as they are for carryout, squeezing Starsky’s shoulder as he takes the dishes to the sink. 

“God, you’re tight. You need to stretch more,” he admonishes, but thinks about what he said while he washes up. “You should let me rub your back. Throw something on TV.” 

Starsky takes up the dish towel and dries what Hutch washes, since it’s his place. “You know, you don’t have to be  _ extra _ nice to me. You can just be regular nice.”

“My regular nice is still pretty mean,” Hutch points out, in a rare moment of self-awareness. Starsky does deserve better, and he wonders how long he’ll remember that for. 

Starsky leans on the counter, working the dish rag through his hands. “I was thinking maybe we need to talk about it, uh, if jealousy is gonna be an issue. ‘Cause there’s nothing else that’s worth half of what I’ve got with you, right? That’s what took so long in the first place, aside from how stubborn I was about my feelings. I didn’t wanna mess up what we had.”

Hutch sighs, leaning his own hip against the opposite counter, and taking the rag from Starsky to dry his hands. “Maybe this is me redefining what regular nice is. Come on, come on.” 

Brooking no denial, Hutch tugs Starsky gently by the wrists into the living room. “You didn’t mess up what we had, baby, remember? I did.” 

Hutch nudges Starsky onto the couch, and sits next to him, still holding his hands. 

“Look, if I’m not good at sharing, that’s a problem with me. Only child, right? Of course I’m bad at this. But that’s  _ my  _ problem. Unless…” Hutch narrows his eyes, trying to see if he’s missed something, because he feels like he has, and that he’s a cad for having missed it. “Unless this is something you’ve wanted to talk about for a while.” 

“No,” Starsky says, honestly. He gives Hutch a grin and squeezes his hand. “Look, it’s complicated because of a lot of things. I don’t want to make it more complicated. It doesn’t matter if we settle down into mutual bliss or not to me. I know you’re always there for me, and I’m confident in that. It keeps on proving true, right?”

“I mean, yeah, but…”

Starsky pulls Hutch against him and leans back on his own couch, putting his feet up on the far  armrest. “Besides, you’re getting older. I figure when the girls stop ringing your doorbell, you’ll be stuck with me.”

Hutch laughs, nosing in for a kiss and winding his arms around Starsky. “At least we can agree on sushi now. Though we might both get sick of it after a while.”

“I think two times is enough for one week, that’s for sure,” Starsky agrees.

Still grinning, Hutch finds a tight knot between Starsky’s shoulder blades and digs his fingers in. “Now are you gonna let me work out some of these kinks or not?” 

Starsky practically moans as Hutch digs his fingers in, and then supposes he has to relent. “Yeah, guess I better. I was kinda hoping you’d put some kinks in, too.”

“Maybe later, if you’re good,” Hutch hums, pulling Starsky up so he can roll him over and begin kneading his shoulders. “If you don’t fall asleep this time.” 

“That’s a compliment,” Starsky says, as if he didn’t frequently fall asleep in very unlikely locations, his car, and sometimes the shower. “It means I trust you, right?”

It’s good though, the way Hutch’s hands seek out the worst knots in his back and work them loose, and Starsky makes a note to return the favor: after all, Hutch had a hard day too. Except it’s awful hard to be willing to do anything to stop how good it feels.

“Hutch, have I ever told you you got a talent?” Starsky mumbles. “‘Cause you do, partner. You’re amazing.”

Hutch grins. “You do, actually, Starsk. You tell me all the time. You’re very good at that. Only—don’t thank me just yet.”

As he says it, he’s getting Starsky’s elbow locked so he can pull it out and up behind him, making him squawk. 

“Easy, easy. I told you you need to stretch. Don’t want you getting all musclebound and gross on me. Just breathe into it,” Hutch coaches, and then slowly releases the limb. “Don’t move, now we’re gonna do the other side. 

Obediently following Hutch’s instructions to breathe through the worst of the stretch and pull, Starsky finds the second arm goes much easier than the first, now that some of the muscles across his shoulders are loosened out. 

“So where’d you pick this up?” Starsky wonders. “Is it something they taught in collegiate wrestling?”

Hutch snorted. “Would you believe the wrestling coach required we take some yoga classes, too?” 

“Huh, maybe you shoulda kept up,” Starsky says. 

He digs his fingers in all down Starsky’s arms, stretching his wrist in a dozen strange articulations, many of which  _ hurt  _ until he releases them, and then starts really massaging his back and shoulders. He explains with a grin, between Starsky’s gasps and groans, “Also I dated a Swedish girl for a little while. How you doing?” 

“Swedish girl, huh?” Starsky asks, intrigued, like he’s digging for details, but he quickly forgets as Hutch mangles his hands into further relaxation somehow, though he’d never really thought about getting a hand massage. “Hutch, I’m doing just fine. I’ll show my appreciation in a minute, once my body stops being soup.”

Hutch glances down at Starsky with a warm smile. He’s just beautiful like this, a sweet, permissive puddle of a boyfriend who lets Hutch stretch out along his back, pressing his weight down evenly on top of him. “Hush, now. This is...part of the massage.” 

He grabs the remote to change the TV channel, since he plans to be there a while. Starsky is warm and breathing shallowly, and Hutch is surprisingly comfortable just stretched out on top of him. He wonders why it is that he usually finds himself sleeping on top of Starsky when they’re in the same bed, doesn’t know why he likes knowing exactly where all of Starsky begins and ends, even when he sleeps. He thinks Starsky likes it, too. Hopes he does. “Comfortable?” 

“Yep,” Starsky says, softly. He’s not exactly a wilting flower, but there’s something about being so close to Hutch, their bodies pressed together on the close confines of the couch, that makes him feel warm and protected. He likes when Hutch is soft with him (or harsh with him, if he’s honest with himself), even if he wouldn’t really tolerate it from anybody else. After all, when one person has your back so completely, anything else just got in the way. “How ‘bout you?”

He doesn’t get an answer right away, but it takes him a moment to realize that Hutch is actually already asleep, passed out loose-limbed like a heavy blanket on top of him. 

-

It’s a few weeks later when everything wraps up, and Starsky throws the thin file down on his desk and straddles his chair, dejectedly. “So, Flambeau didn’t turn up in Liverpool, so apparently he was smarter than I thought about letting me see the documents.”

“You’re kidding,” Hutch says, genuinely surprised and thoroughly disappointed. Things are back to normal between them, so there’s not (much) of a pang of jealousy when he remembers the thief. “Damn it.” 

Starsky tips his chair back on two legs, arms braced over the back of the chair as he rocks it back, thoughtfully. “Also, that stuff you turned up was all some kind of cover. Turns out they know this guy in the UK and his name’s not Flambeau. They’ll be on the lookout for the cars I listed for ‘em, but it’s out of our hands now.”

Hutch opens the folder. 

“John...Smith? See,  _ that  _ sounds like a cover! What the hell?” he muses, an bemused grin on his face. “Where’d he come up with a name like Flambeau? It sticks out.” 

Then Hutch thinks he’s heard that name before, now that Starsky mentions it, but he can’t place it.

“I’m not sure I think Smith is his real name either,” Starsky says. “But he likes to play games so who knows what ‘Flambeau’ is all about? Anyway, it’s over. You want a candy bar?”

He swings himself off his chair again, getting ready to start the rest of the day right—or at least in true Starsky fashion, with chocolate and sugar.

“You’re gonna rot your teeth,” Hutch says, but he follows Starsky out, so he can’t disapprove too much. He watches Starsky go through his pockets, come up empty, and hold out his hand, into which Hutch puts the dime he’s been holding onto all day just for this. When the candy rolls out of the machine and hits the bin at the bottom, however, Hutch gasps, making Starsky jump and drop the candy bar—still wrapped, thank goodness—on the ground. 

“Oh my God! That’s what Flambeau is from!” he cries, grabbing Starsky by the shoulder and laughing. “He’s the thief-turned-detective that helps Father Brown!” 

Starsky looks at Hutch like he’s crazy, and then picks the candy bar up, hoping his partner will explain his outburst. “Who or what is Father Brown?” 

“He’s a detective! From a...book,” Hutch says, blushing even while he’s trying to sound virtuous. “A book series.” 

“Yuh-huh.”While Hutch explains, he unwraps the candy bar and eats it, leaning on the machine, as if expecting this will be good. 

Hutch is very aware of Starsky observing him. “Flambeau is the bad guy, but he’s very dashing. Seduces Lady Felicia once. And then he ends up helping the priest...solve crimes. Look, I read them when I was a kid. It’s not important. Let’s get back to work.”  

“Hutch?” Starsky says, with a slow, fond smile on his face as he chews. “You’re a bookworm.”

When Hutch turns quickly away in a huff, Starsky gives him a goose-pinch on the ass to tide them both over until after shift. 


End file.
